Simon Says
by aliengirlguy
Summary: In Which a man doesn't hear a prophesy, another man does and makes slightly different plans, a family take hate one step to far, a boy doesn't talk, and another man gives an ironic name. These beget events that change how some events might have gone and how one boy in particular is going to become. SLASH (way later), AU, Bidding his time Voldie, OCC
1. Chapter 1

Summary: In Which a man doesn't hear a prophesy, another man does and makes slightly different plans, a family take hate one step to far, a boy doesn't talk, and another man gives an ironic name. These beget events that change how some events might have gone and how one boy in particular is going to become. SLASH (way later), AU, Bidding his time Voldie, OCC.

Authors note: I thought I would try my hand at an AU, with a Harry/Voldie pairing. And yes, I know I need to update my other fics. I am doing this mainly to get back into the game.

Pairings:

Simon/Voldemort

Severus/?

Remus/Sirius

Lucius/Narcissa

Draco/?

Language 

Parseltongue: ~ Blah~

Thoughts: 'Blah'.

Simon Says

Chapter 1: Simon Says "Give Him a Name."

In a sprawling ballroom of a grand mansion that no one knows the location of despite the people who come and go from its walls, sat a man on a throne. He surveyed his followers dressed in all there finery instead of their usual dark robes and masks. With those followers were their families. And in each of those families there could be found infants swaddled in black silk with a slytherin green with a symbol of a skull with a snake for a lounge.

These were another year of next generation followers that had been born. It was tradition for the dark Lord to hold a ball on the last evening before the new years to celebrate the swelling of his forces and ideals that would be passed into the young minds of his followers.

He smirked when his serpentine eyes caught the proud stance of Lucius holding the youngest of the recently born brood, only born a few days prior. His wife was absent, resting after complications with the birth. They were still affecting her, and he knew from overhearing Lucius and Severus talk, that Narcissa would most likely never conceive again.

It was a shame, the Malfoy's were an old pureblood family, still decently powerful, but at least they had managed to successfully have one heir.

While the dark lord himself would not dare to even be hinted at as a family man, he did respect the influence that the family dynamic had or perpetuating his cause and beliefs. After all, when he finally won the war these infants would be some of the first to be wholly bred in his ideals.

He respected the power of the possibility that children had on the future. After all, he had been one such child himself.

Ooo ooo ooo

In an out of the way pub known as the Hog's Head, a young man only a few years graduated from Hogwarts and was in the process of becoming the youngest Potion Master in History. It was this quality of his that had led to him to also being one of the youngest to be considered part of the inner circle. Lucius, who was a few years older than him, had not achieved this hour until recently when he had proven his gift with politics to the Dark Lord.

Severus was in the process of drinking a bolstering cuppa when he spotted the odd sight of Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts striding toward the stairs that lead to the guest rooms of the pub, sticking out like a sore thumb in his pink and gold star robes against the general squalor of the place.

Severus himself was in line for a position as potions professor for the following year, right around the time that he finished his masters. The Dark Lord had a special job for him there, or otherwise he would not have even considered suffering the presence of the dunderheaded infants that plagued Hogwarts's walls.

Severus was rather curious to see why the Headmaster was here. After all, it was no secret that the pub owner and the headmaster didn't see eye to eye, and both men usually stuck to their own territories.

Severus was just about to get up to follow, thinking that there might be something useful to learn, when Charmen Welch, one of the slightly bygone waitresses grabbed his sleeve and reminded him that he had paid her to remember to remind him that he was expected at a certain celebration.

Charmen herself had considered pocketing he cash and not mentioning anything, after all Severus wasn't the most engaging of men, and Charmen wasn't inclined ot go out of her way, but after getting another table without a tip, she was reminded that Severus was an excellent tipper, and the rumour was that he would be teaching next year at Hogwarts. Chances were high that she would see him again at the Hogs Head, and he would continue to tip her if he liked her service well enough, so she changed her mind and reminded the man, practically forcing him to the floo.

The reminder of the celebration, the mandatory celebration that all Death eaters were expected to attend, particularly the families being celebrated and the godfathers of the brats being celebrated, to which Severus had obtained the dubious honour for the one and only heir of Lucius Malfoy.

Grumbling, thoughts of mysterious addle fashioned headmasters left his mind as he left the pub to attend a ball.

Ooo ooo ooo

In a small room above the Hogs Head, a rather addled woman gave a prophesy to one Albus Dumbledore. A prophesy of a child that had the power to destroy the dark lord; a prophesy that was no longer remembered by the giver, and was only heard by Albus, leader of the Light, who couldn't believe his extraordinary good fortune. He knew that he would have to make plans.

Ooo ooo ooo

Some months later, on the exact prophesied night two infants were born to two different sets of parents, only minutes and one bed apart.

Standing before both sets of parents was a man not usually expected at the bedside of a recently birthed family.

Albus stood between the two beds, knowing that one of the two infants, both boys, could be the potential saviour, the one he had been waiting for since he had heard the prophesy.

It was to the confused parents' faces that Albus delivered his news. After all, it could be either one, and he didn't like the idea of being wrong.

All four of the adults before him were members of the Order of the Phoenix, both couples were extraordinarily skilled and strong. The only difference lay in that one couple was completely pureblood, A Light Family, and the other couple was of one Pureblood, also a light family, and one muggleborn, though arguably more powerful than the other three Purebloods.

The parents were understandably upset, especially as Albus wanted to place both sets into hiding.

The Potters and the Longbottoms eventually succumbed to Albus' logic, especially after viewing the memory of the prophecy, after taking an unbreakable vow to never reveal the contents willingly or unintentionally.

So it was decided that Neville Longbottom would be given in safe keeping with his grandmother to rear in a small beach house on the coast of Dover. The old dowager Longbottom would not be missed, as it was often common practice for elderly pureblood wives, particularly the wives with deceased husbands to retire, and many eager young things would fill her role soon enough as the iron fist of the pureblood gossip mongering. Albus would miss her information and usefulness amongst the elite, but it was a necessary sacrifice.

The only other option for Harry Potter was his mother's sister, a muggle.

Lilly had taken longer to convince, after all her sister wasn't the most tolerant sort. But Albus reminded her that the Dursleys obviously would take good care of young Harry, as they had a child of simile rag of their own. After all, if petunia was made aware of the dire straits of the situation, again under the same restrictions, he was sure that petunia would well care for the boy.

Lilly reluctantly agreed, as well as James.

Albus reasoned that Voldemort would be suspicious if four people who had thrice defied him, some of Dumbledore's strongest fighters, suddenly disappeared, and since both James and the Longbottom's were Aurors, there disappearance or sudden early retirement, would also be noticed by the Ministry. Dumbledore had already seen to the memories of the doctors and nurses, as well as vanishing the paperwork into the bowels of the ministry.

No one would have any obvious records of the two boys even being conceived, let alone born. The only paper work that remained would be the Hogwarts registry book, and everything else would be sealed until the boys turned eleven. After all, it wasn't uncommon for pureblood families to have at home births, and mothers don't always have large baby bumps, and there are such things as glamour spells, after all it is war who wouldn't want to advertise a possible weakness to the other side?

By the time they started school they would already be under his power and protection and their re-emergence wouldn't look surprising or unusual, and both boys would blend in with the rest of the student body, no one but their parents, guardians and Albus knowing that one of them was the saviour.

Yes, it was a brilliant plan, despite the regrettable circumstances of the parents missing out on the first 11 or so years of their children's lives, even if they would have them back just before they started their first year.

Ooo ooo ooo

6 years later…

Mr. Charles Chunksway considered himself a respectable business man.

He ran a small, though reasonably successful orphanage that saw a decent turnout of children bing adopted or placed into respectable positions of employment if they past the adoptable age range or desirable adoptable age (which was usually over the age of 13). He made sure that all the paperwork was in order, that all the more problem cases were dealt with in a firm, though not ridiculously so, manner, and all the children had a decent set of necessities and attended the local public school or daycare or high school.

He was not a warm man, nor was the other workers at the orphanage, though some of them did have their favorites amongst the children. But despite the lack of warmth at Chunksway Orphanage for Boys and Girls, the children were somewhat decently cared and provided for.

As such, Mr. Chunksway, while having his eye more on the buck then may have been necessary, was also known to be rather enamoured of his own brilliance, particularly when he had what he called "creative ideas."

It was on a particularly nice day in June that Mr. Chuncksway was presented with yet another unfortunate case sitting in front of his faux oak desk. The boy had recently been found wandering an ally way by a police officer, bloody and in dire need of medical treatment. The fact that the child had been able to move at all was a miracle.

A few months later, finally out of the hospital, the mysterious young John Doe had yet to have his family located. No one could find any sign of anyone looking for him, any pictures or him in school records and so forth. It didn't help any that the boy had remained mute. No one could get him to talk, despite cat-scans and x-rays that proclaimed all bits that were needed for communication were in order.

A child therapist had not gotten any sort of response other than nods and headshakes for basic questions.

All anyone knew for certain was the boys age, about 6 years old, his general characteristics, once things had healed from his injuries and the resulting surgeries, which was pale skin, tiny body, knobby everything, messy black hair, and big green eyes that required glasses and he had a slight permanent limp in his left leg from a devastating shattering of bone that could not be fully repaired.

Mr. Chunksway agreed with the report of the social worker, that the boy would definitely be one of those more problematic cases that periodically came through his door. He would make sure to have the caretakers informed of the boy's lack of communication abilities, and have notes provided for the boys possible future teachers, along with his file kept on record for the orphanage's staff nurse.

Once his brain finished settling all the technicalities, Mr. Chunksway realized something rather basic was missing for all that necessary paperwork.

The boy had no name.

Sure, the boy had been called John Doe, but that was standard label for unknowns and lacked a certain imagination or ingenuity, after all a name was significant, and significance sells. Besides, the boy didn't really look like a John anyway. The director took in the boy's face more closely. He may be somewhat blank in expression, but there was a definite unique beauty to the boy, particularly those large green eyes behind the large black plastic glasses the hospital had provided. Green eyes were not uncommon of course, but these particular eyes held a certain vibrancy that was not so common.

No, it just wasn't good sense to have ones product…er, a child, like this bare such unimaginative designations as John Doe.

Charles considered several names, even his own (after all, his name was the same as Prince Charles after all), but nothing seemed to fit the boy before him.

His musing was briefly disrupted by the sudden sounds of the children running out side of the main doors, which were below his office window, and heading towards the simple playground. He watched them musingly, other mental notes about a few of the tykes to consider for later here and there. His eyes strayed to a group closer to a window where little Ethel Gardener had started up a game with a few other girls. With the window open, he could hear the sweet, slightly shrill voice of the 7 year old drift to his ears.

"…Okay, since Brittney chose the game last time, it's my turn, and I say we play Simon Says, an' I get to be Simon first." (1)

The other little girls groaned, but gamely formed a group in front of Ethel.

"Simon Says touch your toes!"

All the little girls before Ethel as one bowed down to touch their toes.

The children touched their toes.

The game continued in the background of Charles thoughts as he turned his head back to the boy seated quietly before him.

A sudden brain wave hit him. It was unique enough, and perfectly fit the boy in front of him! It was practically a beautiful bit of ironic name making art! Ha!

This is an example of one of those earlier mentioned moments where Charles Chunkway displays his enamouring of his own supposed brilliance. He didn't think it to be somewhat cruel, given the boys muteness, nor did he think of how this name would ultimately shape the boy in front of him.

"You are in luck child!" Charles declared to the boy, "I have decided that calling you John Doe is somewhat ineffective, and have decided on a new name that I am sure you'll come to recognize as your own soon enough."

Of course, the man didn't consider that the boy have not minded being called John Doe, or not care in being called anything at all really, but that didn't occur to the director of course.

Ooo ooo ooo

On a slightly dusty pedestal in a room full of golden light and mysterious bits and bobs that hummed, chirred, and blew smoke upon occasion, a large tome with magical never ending pages, a list of names was inscribed.

These names were those of children that were born to magical UK citizens, or once UK citizens, that displayed magic, or those who were born within the UK that held magic themselves. This was a magical list that updated itself periodically when another child displayed magic or when something of the child itself changes.

It was often somewhat ignored most of the time, with the names of at age potentials from the book appearing on a separate list in the office of the deputy headmaster for the yearly letter addressing and case consideration, particularly if he child was muggleborn. This was why the book was rarely examined.

It was how a certain Harry James Potter disappeared from the book, and another boys name appeared instantly after with all the other 'S' children.

Simon Says.

Ooo ooo ooo

A/N: for those of you who may not be familier with the game: "…a child's game for 3 or more players where 1 player takes the role of "Simon" and issues instructions (usually physical actions such as "jump in the air" or "stick out your tongue") to the other players, which should only be followed if prefaced with the phrase "Simon says", for example, "Simon says, jump in the air". Players are eliminated from the game by either following instructions that are not immediately preceded by the trigger phrase or by failing to follow an instruction which does include the phrase "Simon says". It is the ability to distinguish between valid and invalid commands, rather than physical ability, that usually matters in the game; in most cases, the action just needs to be attempted.

The object for the player acting as Simon is to get all the other players out as quickly as possible; the winner of the game is usually the last player who has successfully followed all of the given commands. Occasionally however, 2 or more of the last players may all be eliminated by following a command without "Simon Says", thus resulting in Simon winning the game…" – quote, ("Simon Says." Wikipedia . org)


	2. chapter 2

Summary: In Which a man doesn't hear a prophesy, another man does and makes slightly different plans, a family take hate one step to far, a boy doesn't talk, and another man gives an ironic name. These beget events that change how some events might have gone and how one boy in particular is going to become. SLASH (way later), AU, Bidding his time Voldie, OCC.

Authors note: I thought I would try my hand at an AU, with a Harry/Voldie pairing. And yes, I know I need to update my other fics. I am doing this mainly to get back into the game.

**an: just took this down to re-edit and re-posted it again.**

Pairings:

Simon/Voldemort

Severus/?

Remus/Sirius

Lucius/Narcissa

Draco/?

Language 

Parseltongue: ~ Blah~

Thoughts: 'Blah'.

Simon Says

Chapter 2: Simon Says Expect the Unforgettable.

Simon was reading a book outside, enjoying the quiet and warmth of an otherwise balmy summer that left the rest of his fellows curled around the air conditioner like wilted flowers.

Simon on the other hand had always been unbothered by extreme weather and temperatures. There was a certain uniqueness, a vibrancy in such weather that appealed to him.

So Simon, who was sitting in his favorite Oak tree on the playground during free time, was surprised when one of the Caretakers, Ms. Dirpnel called his name from the entrance of the main building. She was a rather stern Matron whose husband had been a missionary that had perished from a disease contracted from a bug bite. The women often told bible stories to the children, and took those she could corral with her to church every Sunday. Simon was one of those she was never able to corral. He had long ago learned the skills and subsequent benefits of becoming scarce when someone may potentially notice him, and he was not inclined to go to church with the others as that implied an approved by him group activity, and while the bible had been somewhat interesting, it was not to the degree of religious zeal that the matron, and some of the other children who went willingly, ascribed to.

It was this proclivity to hide that made him able to avoid some of his adoption appointments, by making himself scarce during those weekly open house visits for potential parents as well as the more vicious of the children who didn't take kindly to kids who are different.

Eventually Simon was either so invisible or so indifferent to the bullying, that the children soon grew bored of him. He suspected that many had even forgotten who he was.

He liked it that way.

So when the caretaker hollered outside for him he was rather annoyed. The fact that the matron was calling his name at all meant only one thing.

An interview.

He was certain that he had not been spotted by any potential parents during the visiting days.

He stubbornly returned his eyes back to the words in the page. He didn't need no interview. He knew very well that his oddness, particularly his indifference, and then combining that with his eternal silence, made him damaged goods as far as having parents went.

Whoever the potentials were, they were most likely the "good Samaritans" type. Drawn by his background story if they got far enough to be interested in it if not right away turned off by the look of him. He'd had a few of those dragged before him, adults that thought they could tame him, "heal" him and make him "whole," a whole new perfect boy that would love them forever for saving him from himself and his past.

Pity and compassion were useless motivators to make commitments, in his opinion.

Those types of people irritated the boy more then any, because he was content, thank you very much, being exactly who and what he was. He didn't consider himself the standard by which was accepted as normal, which was relative anyway. He would admit that he did have a tragic past, yes, but he didn't overly care about it, as it happened in the past and he wasn't.

Unfortunately for him, these were the sort of adults that had such motivations caring about those with tragic pasts that he was occasionally forced to waste his valuable time meeting.

This was particularly after the ones who used to be attracted by his looks, the look of a perfect little angel, which he had eliminated thanks to his freakishly quick to grow, bane of scissors everywhere hair, the ugliest spectacles he could find, but still remain functional, and his overall indifference to the state of his cloths and the presence of shoes.

After his early insight, thanks to that one raving substitute teacher, he had soon come to realize that if he was to achieve his goals, he needed to due them without the watching weight of being the focus of potential parents. Parents that would not approve of his single minded acquirement of knowledge, and disprove of things about himself that he was perfectly fine with.

He had crafted a look as a result, as a cross between a slob, a bookworm, and a wild child. This was actually fairly accurate as he was indeed all three in some respects, though the slob bit was more for his clothing, not with his possessions or surroundings.

Simon returned to his studying, ignoring the frequently louder, more annoyed barks of Ms. Dirpnel.

The boy had only valued the advice of one live adult in his life, and that was of the previously mentioned teacher.

It had been his first classroom since he had been at the orphanage, his peers were moaning all the boring stuff like learning grammar and maths and such, a substitute teacher had been teaching that day, as Mr. Fosk had been at home with his sick son, his wife unable to get out of her shift at the hospital.

Mr. Grahmmal had been a sour, cantankerous old sod, and had snapped the only worth while advice that Simon took to heart, but his fellows to ignore.

"It's kids like you that make me wonder for the future. You should hunger for everything your ungrateful hides can learn! Knowledge is power! Without knowing anything in your bumpkin heads, you'll never get anywhere, useless meat sacks suckling off the teat of society…"

Well, it had mostly been a raving rant, and Simon mused that the man probably not been far from retirement when he lectured in such a manner to a roomful of 6 year olds, but there was a wisdom that Simon recognized.

Knowledge is power. To a boy who very much understood what it was like to be powerless, he valued this bit of advice more than anything else, and as such, became his obsession, and indeed hungered for everything in this quarter that his ungrateful little hide could learn.

Simon was not a genius. He worked hard to learn every scrap of knowledge he could get his hands on, applying himself without quarter. As a result, he had a good understanding of things beyond what was commonly found in boys his age. Now at the age of 11, he held 3rd top position in all his classes (since first would attract the attention of adoring teachers and jealous fellows) and a mind shaped significantly by older and wiser brains then those found around him, giving him a rather unique view of people and the world, as well as an understated maturity.

Simon was soon lost in his book:

"…_Consider that for the foreseeable future I will be living in a society that continues to pay homage to morality and believe in its reality implicitly. So I am likely to be confronted time and again by a question like, "Do you believe x is wrong?" It would usually be hopeless to attempt to refashion the question into an amoralist mode of speaking; at the very least this would change the subject from the particular issue under discussion, say, vivisection, to an abstract issue in meta-ethics, namely, whether there is such a thing as wrongness. But there is still a way I could answer the question both honestly and effectively. Thus, I could reply, "Vivisection is wrong according to morality as I conceive it." For that reply is __not __asserting that vivisection is wrong, only that, according to morality (as I conceive morality) it is wrong. In the abstract this has no more force than if one were to say, "Unicorns are a type of horse (according to the common conception of unicorns)." In other words, there is no implication that unicorns actually exist, nor, all the more, that, say, a person could possibly find one for the purpose of trying to ride her…" – _quote, ( Marks, Joel. "An Amorralist Manifesto part 1" _Philosophy Now!_).

Simon was yet again reluctantly ripped out of his reading by another voice, this one a distinctly unfamiliar acidic drawl with smooth deepness like bitter chocolate.

"I see that the matron seems to be unable to penetrate those ears underneath all that ragged mop. Since I haven't the patience to have my valuable time wasted even further by this problem, It seems a closer approach in garnering your attention needs to be applied."

Simon blinked down bemusedly at the man below who glared up at him with clear annoyance, and with a dryness in his voice, and enunciated sharpness, that made Simon muse was not unlike the attack of some blood sucking vampire in vernacular form. It was an apt analogy, as the man himself was distinctly vampirish in appearance, dressed entirely in black. Black dress slacks, black cotton dress shirt, with long sleeves, and a cape-like black duster. Simon idly wondered how the man remained so unperturbed in all that dark material under the blazing sun when the caretaker beside him looked ready to melt in her light colored summer blouse and skirt.

Simon reluctantly closed his book with a snap, seeing as this man was likely not going to go away, and shimmied down the tree, landing languidly before the stranger, holding the book in front of him, observing the man with his usual mask of blank disinterest, what little could be seen from around all his hair of course.

Ooo ooo ooo

If Severus Snape hadn't already been presented with the boy's file, a file which had proclaimed the boys academic prowess, he would have thought he was being presented with the worst of all dunderheads to date.

The boy was insubordinate, disinterested looking, and looked like one who the term "grooming" was a foreign concept. Despite Severus being continuously called a "greasy git" the barbs shot at his hygienic habits, he at least had the excuse of potion's fumes with the type of hair that was rather inclined to be affected negatively by such. In fact, he was stickler for hygiene and was repulsed by the boys shocking slobbish appearance. He had a feeling that Lucius would keel over in a dead faint should he meet the brat.

Still, as inclined as he was to be repulsed by the boys appearance, and attitude, there was something in the eyes as he went about this abominable chore, that was arresting and perhaps, mused Severus, may evidence that the boy was at least not a complete moron.

Informing yet another muggleborn that magic is real (this was revealed to the boy after dismissing a grateful Ms. Dirpel), and then proving this fact by turning a nearby squirrel into Ram and back again (why Minerva thought it was exciting was beyond him) was just another thankless part of being under Dumbledore's thumb.

It was in the turning of the squirrel and back again that Severus noticed it. It was brief, and if he had blinked he would have missed it, but it was that look that made him memorable from the other dunderheads in this moment of meeting.

It wasn't wonder or awe, or fear (as had been some cases) or disbelief.

it was raw hunger.

It was quickly gone from the boy's eyes and the disinterested mask was back in place in a blink, but it caught the potion masters attention.

He remembered that look, a look he himself had worn when he had picked up his wand for the first time, the same look when he realized the power and art of potions. He had also seen it on the face of the dark lord when presented with a new tome that contained knowledge he was not familiar with yet.

It was a hunger to know, like an addict craves a fix.

This bemused Severus, if only a bit, and he wondered exactly how much of the boy's bland indifference was covering. He was a spy after all; he had learnt to draw accurate conclusions from the smallest of body gestures.

Ooo ooo ooo

After the situation had been explained to the director, who for reasons unknown to Simon seemed to be not bothered by how exactly Simon had obtained entry into a prestigious, never heard of, odd sounding boarding school. Nor did he seem to question the obvious dire quality that shadowed the man who introduced himself as Professor Severus Snape, Potion Master and teacher of potions, and especially after the man simply declared that he was taking Simon to obtain said supplies for the school with nothing more then a genial "have fun!." Simon had noticed that the wizard had his wand hidden in the folds of his jacket, pointed in the direction of Mr. Chunksway the entire time though, so determined that it was some sort of magic he was doing that made the director co-operate.

Simon followed the long strident wizard sometime later, after the man had dragged him into a diserted ally near by hte orphanage and did something unpleasent that the man had called apparating but felt like being unpleasently sucked into a straw to small for him.

They weaved down the busy street of Diagon Ally with single mined purpose. It was fortunate that his professor had his back turned or he would have seen a look on the boy's face that would have unnerved even him.

the hungry look that his face had born briefly at the orphanage had migrated to ravenous. So much potential knowledge! So much potential to learn, ask, observe and absorb within every inch of the place! It was a proverbial feast to Simon's obsession and it took quite some time to get control of himself, his fingers twitching for a pen and notebook.

The professor had explained that as he was an orphan and a muggleborn, there was a scholarship that provided the essentials such as clothing, books and tuition for these students. It wasn't much of course, but it was enough to suit Simon's purposes, and he was never one to spend frivolously. He himself had other means of obtaining funds anyway, and it was still a week or two until he was to take the train to his new home, Hogwarts so he could easily comeback himself, since the professor had explained the muggle .

The potion master had taken him to a trunk and baggage store first, to pick up a basic school trunk and book bag so he would have something to put his purchases in.

The next stop was a clothing store, _Madam Malkins Robes for all Occasions_, to get himself a set of school robes, gear and winter paraphernalia. The professor had been most insistent on the shoes, since he had, by the time of meeting the man, "misplaced" his previous set of trainers.

He shrugged, especially after the but complied after the man darkly pointed out that Simon was likely to step in something that wouldn't leave him a foot to step with again later.

The next stop was to buy parchment and quills, which Simon thought was rather archaic, but the man was insistent. It mattered little to Simon, he reasoned that he could just acquire himself some notebooks and pens and pencils later and bring it with him. Again he humoured the man.

The next stop was the apothecary. Here was where the man seemed to become more alive and had immediately left Simon to his own devices with stern orders to wait.

One hour later, the professor returned to find the boy studiously reading the labels of the ingredients, eying the contents comparatively. Simon picked up his standard potions kit, with a firm lecture by the professor to take time to familiarize himself with all his equipment and books ahead of time, as he didn't believe in giving breaks, just because first years may be new timers to potioneering.

The next stop was the bookstore. Here both males spent the longest. Severus Snape was somewhat of a bookaphile, though not at the same degree as his lord, as Severus was more selective to potions, dark arts and mind magics.

Simon on the other hand, mentally moaned but again controlled himself. The professor had mentioned that Hogwarts had an extensive library, as well as Ravenclaw, if he ended up in that house. Besides, he could easily come back on his own later, though perhaps he would aim for a second hand bookstore, if he could find one, as the books seemed somewhat expensive.

Still, he was able to get a few extra from what was on his list, as his professor said there was room for a bit of extra material as a muggleborn or muggle raised usually required a few extra tomes to give them a general idea of how the Wizarding World operated. At least, the smart ones should realize the need for extra knowledge.

Simon picked up a book on the recent Wizarding history of the past 200 years, another book entitled _Hogwarts a History_, and an introductory book on magical theory.

He cracked open _Hogwarts a History_, the rest of his books going into the trunk which magically floated behind him, thanks to a handy spell of his professor's, and began perusing the book as they made their way to the final stop.

Simon didn't notice the sign, to busy perusing his book, but he certainly, reluctantly, took notice of the sudden dusty silent atmosphere of the place they were now in. there was something in the sir that made all the hairs on his body stick up. He felt disturbed and tingly for reasons he could not define. It was a rare feeling, and he instantly was irritated by it.

The man who melted from the dust motes riveted Simon's attention in a way that no one else had since his inspirational substitute teacher all those years ago.

"Severus Snape, Hardwood and dragon heartstring, from a Hungarian Horntail I believe. Rigid and unbending, no room for anything but perfection, but inclined to temper, good for dueling.

"Olivander" the potion master greeted with a polite grumble, "this is Simon Says, here for the usual."

"A yes," the wandmaker mused, turning from the cantankerous man to the boy by his side. The wandmaker was somewhat amused by the boys appearance, especially in contrast to the impeccable Severus. The wandmaker had a sudden feeling that the boy would prove to be an interesting customer.

With a command to remain still, Olivander used a magical measuring tape on every inch of Simon's person. It was only when the man asked Simon which was his wand arm that the boy fully realized what was going on.

He frowned inwardly as he tuck out his most dexterous hand. He knew that a wand was on the list, but it was something that he felt was odd, very odd. Why would magical beings such as wizards require wands? Weren't they magical already?

As if sensing the question Olivander explained. "A wand is necessary for most so they can more easily access and direct magic from their magical core into a spell. It acts as a bridge and focus between a wizard's intention and power."

Simon mentally grunted. He thought that was rather lazy really. It was meant to make it easier, and from what he had seen it wasn't just for children as a learning aide, he had seen countless adults with them. It was like riding your entire life with training wheels still attached and calling him a bicyclist or wading fins on a long distance swimmer and calling them an athlete.

Simon himself had used his magic, after looking back on a few odd moments in his life, which Severus called accidental magic, and he certainly had no refined control seemed logical, why not just work at controlling what you have once you gained they control with a wand and graduate to peddling without the training wheels? While it would certainly imply the need for further refinement, it struck Simon as more logical to simply teach one to use their magic without the handicap. Using magic, to Simon, seemed akin to drinking from a cup. One should be able to utilize the contents just as readily as simply taking a drink, and if you can drink already, why have the redundancy of a straw?

Still, he figured that he wasn't going to escape the place without one, and he was beginning after all, he would just have to make sure he didn't get lazy. Besides he figured that he might as well humour the adults again, after all there was weird unessesaries within the muggle world as well, he might as well just treat this wand with the same grain of salt, and just ignore it as nonsense that needed to otherwise be humoured to avoid greater annoyance foisted on his person later.

Perhaps it was these thoughts in his mind, his general disinterest in using a wand, and disdain for the practice, that perhaps made him somewhat of a difficult customer.

Olivander was of course, thrilled at the challenge while the professor conjured himself a chair and sat down to wait out the long haul with a good Potioneer's Journal. It would just figure he got the brat that took ages to be matched.

Olivander soon deduced that the perpetually silent and bland youth didn't seem particularly interested in the wands, and was merely going through the motions. He also deduced that the boy, while lackluster in his approach to the wands, was also very picky in magical response.

He had immediately noticed the rather negative reaction the boys magic had to anything that came from a dead creature, such as dragon heartstring, as evidenced when a wand of that particular persuasion was magically flung away from the boys hand before it even touched skin. While somewhat unusual, it wasn't wholly uncommon, it usually meant that the boys magic was somewhat repulsed by anything that used unwilling magical creature suppliers as wand cores. Rubeus Hagrid, Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, and Charles Weasley. Those who displayed that reaction often went into jobs associated with magical creatures of some sort.

This also negated quite a few breeds of wands. This left unicorn hair and phoenix tail feather.

This of course proved to be not the case. While the reaction was not violent, the unicorn hair remained just as indifferent as the boy who held them, and the few phoenix feather wands he had, while shooting off a spark or two here and there, was feeble at best, lacking any sort of the connectivity.

Olivander knew now he would have to bring out the big guns.

He very rarely had to resort to his special, experiential custom making a wand, but upon occasion over the centuries, there was the odd individual who required something a bit more unique. Picky magic indeed.

Olivander pulled out a selection of 10 wands. These were not the usual standard. Each wand was a rare commingling of magical wood and core that was otherwise made by Olivander as a challenge by other wand makers or out of boredom or curiosity.

These 10 were his most finicky choosers (after all it's the wand that chooses the wizard not the other way around).

He immediately eliminated 8 of them, as they were made from core sources that the boy's magic might take offense to.

The first of the last two he handed over was Cherry wood and Ashwinder fangs, willingly given.

This wand let out a belch of smoke that filled the store, causing the potion master to growl and vanish the smoke in annoyance, not bad, but not quite.

It was down to the last wand, one of his most unusual looking of his wands, made from the Bloodwood of South America; giving the wood a dark reddish tone, make it look somewhat forbidding. It was a wood that had somewhat mysterious meaning, but Olivander believed that it was particularly for empathy with life, given that when the tree of the bloodwood type is damaged, in tends to bleed a red sap, much like a bloody wound. Now the core of the wand, interestingly, was that of the willingly given wing of a Peuchen that was native to Chile and had given to a medicine woman of the area some few hundred years ago as a thanks to the woman for not exterminating its nest and letting it and its young live peacefully. Peuchen in wandlore symbolized unexpected surprises, power, deviousness and independence. Over all, it had been one of his more interesting wand makings.

As soon as he handed over the wand to the boy a beautiful, colorful mists of shifting vibrancy and colors flowed from the wand's tip, twisting and undulating around the shop. It was a startling breathtaking and beautiful sight; it even raised the brow of Snape.

As for the boy, he didn't give any overt reaction to the display, and readily pocketed the wand once it was paid for.

Long after the boy was gone, Ollivander couldn't help musing that whoever Simon Says was or became, it was certain to be quite something unforgettable, despite the boys best intentions to be otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

Summary: In Which a man doesn't hear a prophesy, another man does and makes slightly different plans, a family take hate one step to far, a boy doesn't talk, and another man gives an ironic name. These beget events that change how some events might have gone and how one boy in particular is going to become. SLASH (way later), AU, Bidding his time Voldie, OCC.

Authors note: Whoo! A few reviews expressing the thirst for revenge on the Potters, and a little on the Longbottoms. I am not a big overt basher, I let the story take me where it may, but the fate of the parents shall be disclosed in the following chaps.

Re-edited chap, nothing new.

Pairings:

Simon/Voldemort

Severus/?

Remus/Sirius

Lucius/Narcissa

Draco/?

Language 

Parseltongue: ~ Blah~

Thoughts: 'Blah'.

Simon Says

Chapter 3: Simon Says: Off to School.

The two weeks preceding his trip to Kings Cross and then Hogwarts, was a busy time for the orphan. As much as he would have just liked to curl up with his books for the entire time in the safe branches of his tree, he knew that there were many things he still needed.

So, a day or two after the potion master had dropped him back off at the orphanage, Simon had used some of his "special" skills to levitate a few wallets from passing muggles in the streets in London, pocketing the cash and depositing the wallets in a lost wallet slot at a nearby bank. He wasn't completely heartless after all, and he did just take money and that was all from the wallets of more well off looking sorts.

Yes, he had been aware of his uniqueness to others when he had levitated a book towards him that a persistent bully had taken from him and was trying to incite the rather irate Simon into a game of keep away with his cronies. He had been in a vital chapter of his reading, so was more annoyed than usual, really wanting his book back.

The results of his heightened want had caused the book to stop in mid-air, then turn away from the bullies reach, and zoom right towards Simon.

Simon may have been only 7 at the time, but this trait, like anything else that caught his interest, was explored thoroughly. He had thought, at the time, that it was some sort of physic ability, something that had only been the stuff of fiction and paranormal theory until the potions professor had shown up, still, whatever its source, it had proven valuable over the years, and Simon, always practical, took what he needed with it.

Once he had gathered what he deemed to be a decent amount of money, he had taken the long walk to Charring Cross road and the Leaky Cauldron, somewhat pleased that his orphanage was so close, and rather relieved that the professor had given him a small booklet that showed the muggle locations of hidden wizarding sites, and travel information for the witch and wizard.

He had many plans the next summer; it was just unfortunate he couldn't do more than a basic supply and observance of Diagon Ally and its surroundings. The things he could have observed and absorbed if he'd had more than just a week!

The bartender Tom had barley raised a brow at the youngster, and Simon had made a point to remember the sequence on the brick wall the bartender helpfully applied for him, remembering to later apply it with his bloodwood wand.

He did this every other day or so, first a bit of a money grab, then off to Diagon ally where he would exchange it at Gringgots for wizard money, ignoring the sneers of the richly dressed sorts that he later learned were most likely the pureblood class, a form of elite political/royal families in this new world. After that bit of interaction it was off to fill his magically extendable book bag with what caught his fancy, usually books, which he acquired mainly in a little rundown second hand bookstore on the outskirts of Knockturn ally.

When he wasn't perusing some shop he would observe the denizens, hiding in shadows and listening in on conversations, or observing actions.

One day he's been lucky to observe what appeared to be a squabble amongst two portly wizards over some rare snow globe that was apparently one of a kind and worth thousands of galleons, and had the opportunity to observe the resultant wizards duel that had erupted, despite the pleads of the shop owner to desist.

He was able to take note of quite a few curses (ones that he wrote down in his handy notebook where he had been recording his observations) before the aurors had descended upon the scene and subdued the two.

In all the kerfuffle, nobody had noticed when the object of the duel went missing until it was long gone.

Simon had even ventured into Knockturn ally a few times, finding this place highly fascinating, if a bit dirty. He was not bothered by the air of danger and general disreputable quality of the place, and had been delighted to spot a grungier version of a second hand bookstore. He never acknowledged the odd pair of eyes that leered from dark corners, and would absently swerve a grabbing hand or a silently cast spell, or bent to pick up the occasional interesting looking stone or bit of trash, unruffled by the odd dagger or two that would whizz by where his head had been.

He mentally resolved to visit the place more often, especially as the equally grimy store clerk of one of his rapidly favorite shops seemed to not mind that he was a boy buying something that would otherwise be considered illegal or at the very least detestable by many, not that Simon paid attention to such things.

Ooo ooo ooo

When the day of departure rolled in, Simon rose in the very early hours before sunrise.

He gathered his trunk, which had all his things, including his collection of muggle books he had kept over the years in an old box, with his ticket secured in his money pouch underneath his jumper, and the trunk itself was shrunk, per a charm the trunk seller had provided for an extra 10 sickles that the Professor had allowed, which he also stuck in his money pouch.

The only thing he held in his hands was a letter for the director, which he left in the man's letter box outside his office, informing him of his departure, and with the other hand he held a broom.

It was a longer distance from the orphanage, which was just off Fleet Street, to Kings Cross station then it had been to the Leaky Cauldron, obviously not a walking jaunt for a little boy and his heavy luggage.

He could have just as easily taken a trolley or the bus, or a taxi, but on his last visit to Diagon Ally, he had come across a broom that had been sitting in a crate with a bunch of others outside a Quiddich supply store, and had been intrigued by the device when he had learned that apparently flying broomsticks, and the less popular flying carpets, were all too real, and the source of the muggle witch cliché.

The clerk receiving the shipment had been too busy chatting up the buxom delivery witch, so no one noticed when one of the brooms disappeared from its crate.

After some experimentation in some out of the way spot, he had found that yes, brooms really do fly, and the piece of wood had responded to his silent come hither gesture readily enough. It was things like this that just strengthened his assumption that all that wand waving and use of spells was just another training wheel handicap for the ignorant. Still, despite his opinions on spells and such, he had somewhat revised his opinion on his wand. While he felt that it was still very much a crutch at times, he had since learned from his book that apparently only the legendary, powerful types of wizards had the ability to access and utilize pretty much any magic wandlessly and wordlessly, and even they started off with a wand at some point. Only accidental magic found in children and the occasional above average magic user could perform bits of wandless/wordless, and of them, children grew out of their accidental magic, and those few above average users who could perform a few things without wands could only do small spells or have a certain affinity with a certain stronger spell or two, but that was it. Simon finally figured that he would have to hold onto his wand, he just resolved not to become dependent on it by thinking it was the only way to do magic just because it was easy and for magic that he figured needed a little extra oomph.

Simon turned his thoughts back to the present and with a silent sigh he straddled the thing, bent his knees and jumped.

The device responded immediately and he rose rather quickly into the air. It took him a few moments to work out the mechanics, but he seemed to have a knack for this broom flying business.

He kept high up in the clouds, rather glad that he had taken the precaution of donning his hooded rain poncho, a standard at the orphanage, and began to mentally catalogue every nuance of the experience while keeping an eye on the scenery below to make sure he was going in the right direction.

Yes, he could have taken a more mundane mode of travel, but the chance to acquire knowledge, in this case the mechanics of one of the various forms of wizard travel (he decided that the knight bus might be a bit too much yet, as the pamphlet had warned not to let children on-board unsupervised), and the general experience of flying in general, was to obviously the better choice for Simon. After all, he already understood the mechanics and experience of traveling by muggle transportations, therefore it was only sensible to ride a flying broom for the first time to Kings Cross. It wasn't like he had risked the secrecy act or anything, he had left while it was still reasonably dark, and he was quite high. There were no planes around, and he blended quite nicely with the clouds in his poncho. Further, riding a broom, while not allowed for first years (so his letter had said), was not disallowed to underage wizards in general outside of school.

One of the books he had gotten while in Knockturn, was a dog-eared edition that explained the laws of under aged wizards and how to keep track of them.

Apparently there was some sort of magical trace that was added to wands of young wizards and witches and would bind itself to the magical core of the under aged wizard which would dissipate once the child reached the age of 17.

While Simon was somewhat uncaring of many rules, even he agreed that the Wizarding World should remain secret from muggles. It had been his experience that much of humanity feared what they didn't understand, and one of those groups of humanity had things such as missiles and semi-automatics and sheer numbers, it was only sensible to preserve ones right to not be blown to smithereens by some bigoted idiot, especially when the bulk of said vulnerable world seemd to be rather backwards and out of touch by a few centuries with the muggle world, despite mugle raise and muggle borns entering from it.

Ooo ooo ooo

Simon wondered if Wizards were really so ignorant of muggles that they would assume that no one would eventually notice that random people and groups of people keep disappearing into a large wide pillar between platforms 9 and 10. Simon resolved to study the odd mode of access at a later date. Maybe there were records he could study…

He shook his head, reluctantly noting it down in one of his ever present notebooks for a later date before strolling through the entrance to the platform.

It had been a few hours wait until the entrance was due to open. Fortunately, Professor Snape had explained exactly how to get on the train, even if he had sneered all the way through it. Simon reluctantly decided that even if the man was somewhat unpleasant and had an unusual distaste for children, given his profession, he was at least worth being paid attention to and taken seriously. Simon would withhold his judgment on the man's usefulness as an information source once Simon started taking his class.

Simon had spent the waiting time ignoring the muggle populace and studying the various travel maps made available for free at the station. He had bought some fish and chips from a yawning vendor as he opened for the day, and Simon had found a nice spot under a tree across from the station until it was time to leave.

Simon was not disappointed in the train when he saw it though.

The gleaming red engine was a little outdated, but not obviously so, and retained a certain nostalgic quaintness that was designed to inspire good memories when people recounted it, it was also somewhat garish, but Simon had come to the conclusion that the Magical world held a lot of that, and he was approaching this opinion as an observer who had grown up in a staid muggle environment. It was the sheer magical presence though, that really caught the boy's attention from the notebook he had been writing in.

The Hogwarts Express practically screamed with magic, and it made the child tingle, an odd sensation for he was usually never this excited, if ever.

Simon felt a half grin form under all his hair, which was further surprising.

Instead of finding a compartment like the other arriving students, Simon immediately made his way to the working end of the train, looking for, and finding a perch inside the magically expanded cabin where the driver was busily checking a large amount of levers and other bits and bobs that Simon suspected was not found in normal steam engine trains. The man would busily call out numbers and colors to a floating parchment beside him where a diction quill was busily noting down the man's findings.

Simon observed for a good thirty minutes, writing down what the man did and said as well as a detailed description of the interior. Simon decided to look into getting himself a camera at some point, as an artist he was not. It was things like cameras that would significantly assist his research. Before, he had only ever used disposable cameras he filched from stores, but that was obviously not going to work in an environment that normal muggle cameras would break or just not work in. He had read about this in _Hogwarts A History_. Still, there must be magic friendly cameras out there, as he had seen enough moving photographs in the discarded newspapers he had found in Diagon.

Soon, the conductor, who had been coming to meet the driver to get an update on his schedule of departure noticed Simon's avid attention. The conductor chuckled and shooed the boy back to the passenger section, scolding the annoyed boy about it not being a place for children and to find himself a compartment before they all filled up.

Simon obviously didn't argue, but he sullenly made a final note in his notebook to study it further later, and made his way onto the train.

Simon familiarized himself with the passenger compartments, making a note here and there, occasionally pausing to listen in on a conversation or two and making notes on that. He determined that the entire train was comprised solely of private compartments with a small area for the conductor, the trolley lady, and the driver when he wasn't needed to handle the train. There was also a set of boys and girls bathrooms in the front, middle and caboose of the entirety, with one storage car also in the front of the train before the furthest front student compartments started, most likely holding supplies for the workers of the train. There was also one compartment reserved for prefect/head student meetings and a small kitchen where the trolley lady filled her trolley with snacks and treats and deposited the day's earnings.

Simon had decided to obtain a compartment that was right across the aisle from the prefect/head student compartment, rather glad that it was empty.

He took a seat after closing the compartment, and set his trunk on the ground before him, unshrinking it with a tap of his wand and deposited the now filled notebook and grabbing a new one for later and a new pen which he stuck behind his ear. He next pulled out his school robes; though why this was the uniform he was uncertain. It was another one of those questions he had written down ages ago when he had first seen how wizards dress. While they tended to vary, wearing garments that could be so restricting and cumbersome seemed rather odd, even to a couldn't-care-less-about-cloths Simon. He approved of the colour, black at least was good at hiding stains and such, and the robes would be warm in the winter, but then again, one could get the same qualities out of more sensibly constructed cloths and smocks.

Despite the questions the attire of the magical community had generated, he reluctantly came to the conclusion he would not be able to get out of wearing it. He wanted to be left relatively alone, so he decided to accept the cover that the conformity of the uniform would offer, and compromised on making a few adjustments to the robes to make them at least somewhat manageable.

After donning his gear, he pulled out another book before closing his trunk and re-shrinking it with another tap of his wand (per the automatic spells that the trunk maker had explained as he cast them on Simon's things).

He was only a half hour into his tome when he felt the jerk of the train, then the smooth, soon to be ignored vibrations as the locomotive began its journey.

It was a few minutes after this that the door to his compartment slid open obnoxiously.

Simon ignored this; only peripherally aware enough to note that he was no longer alone before becoming further subsumed in an explanation on the effects of a curse involving something called medusa locks being described in the page.

Ooo ooo ooo

Draco Malfoy had been excited to attend Hogwarts since he was a little boy. Often his mother and father would tell him stories about the sprawling grounds, the mysterious hidden passages, the majesty of the Slytherin common room, though not as majestic as Malfoy Manor of course, nothing was, but still fit enough to house those of the stature that the Malfoy's held. On Draco's birthday in February, he had received his Hogwarts Letter, along with one from Durmstrang. His father had seriously considered sending him to the more desirably dark school, but his mother had thankfully pointed out that no matter the fact that the old fool headmaster and enemy of his father's lord ran the school, it was tradition for both Malfoy's and Blacks, her family, to attend Hogwarts, even their lord had established his first followers in its revered walls. Besides, there were quite a few masters of their various arts teaching there, despite the problems with the history position and that many of these masters followed Dumbledore, they were still experts and further, Draco's friends and possible political acquaintances would also be attending Hogwarts.

His father had agreed, despite having his son near the old coot, but it was tradition and his wife did make other valid points.

So Draco sent a polite refusal to Durmstrang and the excited boy soon found himself with a new wardrobe, a wand, books and a familiar (a rather handsome eagle owl he named Aries) on a train that had been rode by his father and grandfather before him.

And like his predecessors, he had planned to take for himself the compartment that his father and grandfather had used.

Unfortunately, there was someone already in it.

Draco's swagger and smirk, matched by his friends and cohorts, many of them children of death eater parents, halted at the sight of the…person that was in the prestigious cart reserved (in his mind) for Draco and his friends only.

The sight of the boy that dared to besmirch _his_ compartment made Draco physically ill. He was everything opposite to Draco. Where Draco was dressed neatly and impeccably in his student robes, not a wrinkle in site, this abomination's dress was distinctly slovenly, the collar undone, the robes seeming to lack a wrinkle-free charm, and the boys shoes, while standard and clean, only remained so because they didn't appear to be worn all that often, as the boy was barefoot. Said bare feet were resting on the seat in the most appalling lack of posture or decorum. Further, as a leg shifted, he caught a sight of torn muggle jeans that were revealed in a scandalized view of a mangled butchery of the otherwise what was supposed to be elegant sweeping lower half of his student robes, a slit up either side, like some sort of trollops dress!

The boy's hair nearly made Draco faint, a mass of dark raven long tangles and wild cowlicks passed the boys skinny shoulder blades, hiding most of the top half of his body. The boys hands were the only redeeming quality, surprisingly elegant and long fingered, but even that was defiled by the presence of ragged black gloves that had the fingers cut off, loose threads kissing those otherwise redeemable appendages almost mockingly.

Draco's strangled spluttering, and the thumps of trunks impacting floor, then the yelps of pain as Blaise and Theo's toes were impacted by said trunks, went unacknowledged by the…the being before them. It was however, Crabbe's attempt at physically foisting the boy from his seat by grabbing his arm and growling for him to "get" that finally drew the boy from behind the large dusty red book whose tittle was as faded as his obviously ill kept muggle attire.

The book lowered and revealed the boy's face to the first years for the first time.

Draco nearly choked again in outraged disgust at the sight of the heavily taped, ugliest accessory to ever grace a person's face, and he had lived through his Aunt Bella's skull nose piercing phases (one of many unsuccessful attempts to lure the dark lord into her bed) as a boy.

To see such atrocities framing eyes that stunning caused the affronted aristocrat to stagger. Never had he thought something as beautiful and desirable as Emeralds being capable of being so besmirched until this moment. Never would he be able to look at those jewels again without the memory being sullied by the sight that greeted him now.

The boy before the first years was silent, as opposed to his fellow year mates. He did not seem to notice his affect, or at least was uncaring of their affront. They only earned a brief glance of indifference, which was even more galling, before he turned his bland gaze to the boy with his hand upon his person.

Crabbe blinked stupidly (a common theme) when his hand was suddenly empty and the boy was back to reading his book, his posture while still poor, left room on the seat beside him considerately.

The students blinked, trying to figure out how that happened, before they finally recovered themselves and set about trying to remove this affront to their pallets which strangely enough, seemed harder than one would think, given that the boy was mostly just sitting there reading. A few of the boys, mainly Crabbe and Goyle, tried to remove the boy bodily, but like the first time, the boy just seemed to evade their grabs while seeming to barely move from his spot. It frustrated them, as they seemed to perpetually blink and miss something. Blaise, Theo and Draco tried a few of the spells that their parents had taught them ahead of time (in their nicely warded against ministry tags manors). Magic was somewhat allowed on the trains, provided it wasn't destructive or harmful. While the spells the boys attempted on the reading boy might have fallen more into the slightly harmful category, it was "attempted" that could be considered the definitive word here. It was as if their magic was just as appalled as their masters to the point of immobility as whatever was cast at the reading boy seemed to never make it out their wands, leaving the group feeling frustratingly impotent and vastly confused.

When Pansey's final attempt to insult the boy out of the cabin failed, she suggested to Draco that they just find another cabin, but Draco was not looking to give up on Malfoy tradition. Besides if he did, the creature before them would have won, and that was infinitely worse in Draco's mind.

Luckily, the cabin was spacious enough to house the defeated interlopers without any of them having to sit too close to the boy, so they eventually decided to preserve the last dregs of their pride and ignore the boy behind his book, who had long forgotten they were there in the first place.

Ooo ooo ooo

Review and let me know what you think of the fic so far!


	4. Chapter 4

Summary: In Which a man doesn't hear a prophesy, another man does and makes slightly different plans, a family take hate one step to far, a boy doesn't talk, and another man gives an ironic name. These beget events that change how some events might have gone and how one boy in particular is going to become. SLASH (way later), AU, Bidding his time Voldie, OCC.

Authors note: this chappie shall reveal some of what happened after the two boys were given up. There won't be much Neville centric in this fic, as while he is okay, I decided to focus primarily on Simon and peoples reaction to Simon. Also, after long and hard mental debate I considered which house to put Simon in. My reasons will be made clear with the sorting hat and later sequences further into the fic.

Pairings:

Simon/Voldemort

Severus/?

Remus/Sirius

Lucius/Narcissa

Draco/?

Language 

Parseltongue: ~ Blah~

Thoughts: 'Blah'.

Simon Says

Chapter 4: Simon Says: Put on the Hat.

It always seemed to him to be another small victory over the old man, that and the continued evidence of the desperate incompetence of the Wizarding World altogether when another school year started at Hogwarts and the Wizarding World believed he was still dead, and Dumbledore remained unable to prove that he was not.

Indeed, it was quite a boon for a certain faction that the Headmaster suffererd several political setbacks when many accused him of perpetuating a war mongering mentality in the people, and had lost his position as Supreme Mugwamp. Eventually the old man pulled back on his position, obviously fearing losing anymore credibility that would be needed later when the war started again.

And there was little doubt in the more intelligent minded that it would. Though in some minds many thought it hadn't really stopped, merely took a different route, an outright violent detour, a more sneaky battle behind the scenes, waged with politics and influences and shadows.

The man pondering these thoughts took another bland drink of his orange juice. Another year starting at Hogwarts, another year of impressionable little minds for him to influence and pick through for the most promising to envelop under his control.

The man who briefly allowed the cold little smirk to briefly flit across his countenance at this notion was a stunningly attractive man with wavy dark chocolate hair, healthy golden skin and smoky blue eyes that looked out with charming mystery.

To anyone who looked at this man, they saw the talented young Korolevskaya Zmeya, decedent of a distant Russian pureblood family that had all died out, but for him. He was a neutral wizard during the war, and had been homeschooled by his mother before she died from dragonpox. No one knew the secret he had been keeping, the pure impressive scope of a grand plan supported by hundreds of other smaller and slightly less grand maneuverings for the past 8 years, a grand plan that had him at the centre of it all, and the snake in the Wizarding World's grass.

8 years ago, upon all Hallows eve, Lord Voldemort and a group of Death Eaters had attacked the Ministry where a small staff of employees, including a skeleton staff of Aurors had been in attendance. It had been unexpected, since the dark lord had been relatively quiet for the past few months before hand.

In that battle, Death Eaters and the few ministry employees on duty both suffered casualties, but it was the final confrontation between the talented Auror prodigy James Potter and the Dark Lord himself that would make history that night. Both sides of the battle had ceased to witness the epic battle, and many considered the night that Voldemort finally had made a vital mistake, small seeming, a mistake that Auror Potter took full advantage of.

Voldemort had been distracted briefly by the arrival of what should have been magically blocked floos, a traitorous act that was later revealed to be the fault one Severus Snape, who had been commanded to cast the nessesary magical blocks, and a group of Order and Ministry Aurors had arrived on the scene of battle.

Potter cast his most powerful Diffindo at Voldemort while the dark Lord responded with an Avada Kadavra. The spells had collided in mid-air, but because the dark lord had been a few seconds behind because of the distraction, Potter was given the upper hand in spell timing.

What happened, no one can conclusively say. The Dark Lord's spell was somehow turned back towards him under the force of Potters spell, and the man's body was destroyed in the aftermath, disintegrating to ash under the force.

The stunned witnesses, once they recovered and confirmed that indeed, the Dark Lord was gone, the Wizarding World rejoiced, hailing the Potter Lord the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Dark Destroyer.

Korolevskaya snorted, recounting the gushing articles.

Dumbledore of course, didn't believe that the Dark Lord had perished, never once did he doubt it, as evidenced by his employers staunch, though little known maneuverings within the ministry and foil any potential plans that even hinted of the dark.

Frankly, the Russian pureblood would have been disappointed in the old coot if he had followed along with the rest in believing Voldemort defeated so easily. It would have been immensely insulting.

The current man musing on these thoughts smirked again, internally, when he thought of his greatest achievement, that of getting his position as Defense professor (Defence against the dark arts moniker was no longer used, thanks to a certain little seen coming, or little cared about, bill passed in the Wizengamont). It had been his first dream, and he had finally been able to realize it thanks to the death of the dark lord Voldemort.

When his application had been approved by Dumbledore, the old wizard just saw a well to do talented foreigner looking for a quiet teaching job and take a break from the pureblood politics for most of the year. The fact that he had arrived 3 years after the supposed end of the war, without any hint of dark affiliation with glowing recommendations from others without dark affiliations, assured him a position.

Now, 5 years to the date (a record that had apparently nullified a long standing rumour that the position was cursed) that he had sat at the staff table for the first time. He privately looked at the Welcoming Feast as an amusing celebration and unknowing tribute to his success in achieving one of his many goals of sitting where he was now. He looked forward to the day when he could see Dumbledore's face when he realized exactly what he had allowed within his walls and around his precious brats.

The man finally turned his attentions from his musings to the opening doors of the great hall.

The man internally smirked when he saw the nervous firsties. His eyes immediately noted that a little over a quarter of them were heirs (such as Nott, Malfoy, and Zambini), siblings or relatives of death eaters (such as Parkinson and Smith) and dark supporters. Others were a mix match of muggleborns, half-bloods, and a few children from Light (he mentally groaned at the sight of yet another red head that he suspected was another Weasley brat) and Neutral families (such as the Bones girl if he was not mistaken).

While the muggleborn and muggleraised were larger in size then he would have liked, this crop still held enough possible potentials to not make the group a complete disappointment.

"Abbot, Hannah"

And so it began, with Korol (as his name had been reduced to by some friendly, well-meaning so and so a name that Korol decided was useful to keep with casual acquaintances that called for first name basis) began mentally shuffling the children under bloodline slots and making mental bets with himself on who would possibly go in what house. Occasionally, he would glance a bit longer in one child's direction or other and adding to his mental musings.

He was always usually an excellent judge of who ended up in what house, and had yet to be wrong.

It was, therefore, when a name that would otherwise be dismissive, for obviously the boy was a muggleborn or a half-blood, a boy that was firmly affixed to his book, was called forward and Korol would lay eyes on the first questioning of his as yet unflawed judgment.

The oddness started when Minerva had to say the boy's name several times, a name, while amusing and slightly unusual, for those who understood the origin, would not be to odd, after all, with such grander names as Voldemort and the Black's obsession with stars and flowers, it was not obviously unusual, however, practically shouted throughout the great hall by a rather irate deputy headmistress, left a memorable impression of said name, causing several muggleborns to snigger.

Then, unexpectedly, the normally sullen Severus Snape, who always despised the opening feast and other get-togethers, who usually remained sulkily silent during said events that dragged him from his precious potions snapped:

"Says! Put away that blasted tome and present yourself brat!"

Where Minerva's stern voice failed, Severus' annoyed snap finally stirred one of the children from the few remaining to be sorted.

It was the boy's appearance that was another oddity. He had the look of a slovenly wild child, and shocking several of the purebloods and prudish rule followers, the boy had rather sloppily put on his robes, sans tie, and a slit, rather brazenly worked up each side of the boys robes on the lower half and displayed plain wrinkled dress slacked legs. The boy's very person radiated a bemused sort of indifference as he finally meandered over to the stool and sat down, horrible glasses gleaming under his tangled mane.

Minerva squawked rather unbecomingly when the hat, about to be set on the boys head was snatched from her hands by said boy, and the child examined the sorting hat curiously, poking the hat and examining the inside curiously before Minerva recovered from the shock and snatched the sorting hat back with a hiss of disproval that seemed to amuse Severus, and slapped it on the boy's head rather more roughly then was called for.

They waited. And then they waited, and waited some more.

Korol had dismissed the boy at first, mainly hidden behind his book in the professor's first cursory glance. Anyone else witnessing the calling of Simon Says would immediately assume the epitome Ravenclaw stereotype. After all, the boy was obviously more interested in his book then his own sorting, and certainly was ignorant, or uncaring, of the graveness of the ceremony he was part of in favor of examining the hat beforehand. However, it was the brief moment before the boy had sat down, when Korol turned his gaze and all his attention on the boy before him, that he realized something even greater, something that definitely caught his attention.

He could not gauge the boy.

Oh, he could make judgments based on what his eyes showed him, like everyone else, but that was the problem. Other than certain powerful individuals, he had never been forced to make those judgments solely on observational evidence like everyone else, and this very much caught his attention.

He could not read the boy's mind.

Everyone, including Korol, was forced to make the assumption based on what they saw before them; that the boy was certain to end up in Ravenclaw, or perhaps Gryffindor, since he seemed unruffled by the proceedings. Though granted it was a cursory guess, since no one obviously knew the boy, though the distain shot like knives from the glares of the Slytherin first years, was certainly curious, though not unsurprising, just the sheer level of loathing that was odd.

The boy was unlikely to end up in Slytherin, he finally surmised, leaning back and starting to lose interest. While the boy's mind being unable to be read was rare, there had been documentation of a few individuals that had natural barriers, and it did not necessarily indicate power, merely a rare natural talent, like someone being born with two different coloured eyes. Everything about him upon first glance, looked distinctly un-slytherin, uncaring for his presentation, not from any as yet recognized family lines, and the boy showed little to no magical presence at all, if any.

No, definitely not Slytherin material.

He was uncertain if the boy displayed any hidden Hufflepuff tendencies, but as the hat said, hufflepuff not only took the loyal, but also all the rest. He felt, just like the rest of the hall, that the hat was merely taking so long trying to decide between the two due to some hidden personality quark or another. After all, the Granger Girl, and the Smith boy had taken a fair longer time to sort then some of the others.

Yes, definitely Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Even the lions ha more pride in themselves then this slob of a boy.

Ooo ooo ooo

"_Well, well, what do we have here?"_

The sorting hat had perused thousands of minds over the many centuries since his creation. He had some across many different minds. All minds with the greatest of potentials, the unique of views, or the most mundane to mind numbingly boring grey matter he had the misfortune to sit upon.

The mind of Simon Says was certainly not mundane though, definitely of the unique category.

The thoughts presented to him revealed a child with a rather devastating past, though a rather sharp, nearly single minded obsession that had earned its beginnings partly within that past, an obsession that gained its fruition from one muggles bitter rant. The obsession's dictated nature would certainly be supported and furthered within the house of Ravenclaw, in fact, the boy bore a definite idea of this and practically screamed it to his seams.

The boy would certainly make an excellent Ravenclaw, given his value of knowledge to vast extremes, however the boy was not completely dependent on books, and often didn't rely solely on the information presented by others and spent an equal time examining things himself, deriving his own conclusions and absorbing then as part of his world view as opposed to other Ravenclaws that a more academic approach, but there had been other Ravenclaws similarly inclined.

The hat was rather inclined to think that the Ravens would be a good roost for the boy.

Still, there were other things about the boy.

He was not afraid of hard work, as evidenced by the sheer single-mined intensity and time that the boy committed to achieving his goals, and the hat suspected that if anyone ever cracked that wall of his, one that the hat felt was both impressive and disturbing to be found in a child, that boy would dedicate a rather fierce possessive loyalty in the same manner that the boy was loyal to his convictions in maintaining his goals. This was how he saw that the boy might do well in Hufflepuff, and the boy would certainly benefit from the friendlier atmosphere, and the family unit quality of the badgers.

However, the hat could also see that the boys absentminded indifference to the exclusion of his goals, which might prove too intimidating and daunting to even the most staunch badger. None of the children in that house would understand someone so indifferent and uncaring to the warm family unit of the house, despite how it would benefit him in the end, no the boy was too indifferent to be a badger.

Gryffindor was another strong possibility.

The boy certainly had born his hardships and come out of it strong, he was not afraid of conflict, not afraid of potential danger, though that seemed mainly because the boy was unaware when he was present in or before them. He further was not afraid to face certain hard or disturbing truths that pop up as he tried to understand and learn which was certainly admirable, and the boy certainly had a rather stubborn streak longer then Albus' name.

However, the boy was again to indifferent and uncaring to boldly seek out adventure unless it had some benefit to him, and had more practicality then brash hot headedness.

No, definitely not the Lions then.

Then there was Slytherin.

The boy certainly did not outwardly appear to be the epitome of Slytherin to others, but the hat saw many qualities that would make him a prime candidate.

The boy was first of all, definitely a decedent from a pureblood family, at least on his father's side, and definitely had secrets upon secrets hidden in his mind. The boy had much ambition, given his shinning goal that throbbed like a beacon throughout the boys mind, and he definitely had a fair amount of sneakiness to him along with a certain selective use of morals, and skewed at that, much like many other Slytherins.

Then there was the potential, oh my yes! It was enough to make even the hat inwardly shiver, and he had been on the heads of numerous dark and light lords and ladies the boy had the potential to be a world changer, if placed in an environment that would give him the opportunities to eventually crack out of that shell of his, and to do that, he would need to be around others of the hidden and secretive, those that could see clues to such potential and drag him out of his self-absorption.

Slytherin was definitely a strong possibility.

The hat was finally left with a choice between Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

Everything about the boy's goals, and personality, despite certain inclinations, weighed more in the favor of one house.

However certain other aspects of the boy's psyche and drives inclined another house.

The ultimate decision was teetering on the edge until the hat finally added another factor.

The boy's needs.

The had knew, in no uncertain terms, that If the boy ended up in one house, the boy would not have the proper nurturing for his unique mindset to help him reach his full potential. The other house though would definitely place him in an atmosphere that would be good not only for him, eventually, but possibly everyone else. Only in one house can the boy's full terrifying potential be realized.

The hat could see the tragedy of the boy, the tragedy of the past, and the future if he were not steered away in time.

The hat had made his decision.

"_I look forward to the world that you shall walk in when you choose to realize it Mr. Says, and I hope that you'll find that with the help of…"_

A slit opened in the hat's brim.

"…Slytherin!"

Surprising, and shocking many, the mysterious Simon Says took off the hat, looking somewhat bored and meandered to his table, not seeming to notice the appalled expressions and disdain that was turned in his direction from his housemates, nor the potion master who covered his face with a hand and groaned soundlessly, nor the intense, flummoxed look from a certain Defense against the dark arts professor. He merely found a spot and took out his notebook and began scribbling down his notes on the ceremony and the hat and a list of things he felt he needed to further study, such as how the roof was created, the magics behind the hat, and many other things.

He noted names and descriptions of the professors, though didn't think writing the students of his year down as overly interesting enough to earn his attention as of yet.

He picked absently at the food, never one to be moved either way by it, except for the mechanics of its process and how it affected others and what uses could be derived from this knowledge. He also noted on the pages that the way the food appeared on the tables was worth looking into, and his mind and pen eventually rambled off into such wonderings if the Wizarding World had food allergies and if they did what the treatments were, if any, and so on and so forth.

Simon didn't really care to note that his year mates walked closer together and in the front of him, leaving him to trail a ways behind them as they followed the Slytherin prefect, Monique Montague, fifth year, though he did take note of his surroundings, the directions, and the various magical things along the way.

He did listen to Professor Snape when the man gave a speech in the common room, listing the various rules, many of which Simon had dismissed as irrelevant or occasionally obvious common sense.

When they were all finally sent up to their dorm rooms, in which he was relegated to the farthest bed from the bathroom doors, but relatively close to the window, which did catch his attention as he made notes on the interesting possibilities of magically created windows (as he surmised it could be nothing but since they were underground, and read about them in _Hogwarts a History_). He ignored his roommates jeers and general kerfuffle that one such as he would dare besmirch the walls of Slytherin blah, blah, and how it was stain on every Slytherin, for him to be a part of the most noble house, yada yada, various shots at his lack of purity, so on and so forth before his fellows finally went to bed, unable to get a rise out of them.

Simon finally prepped for bed himself and made a few final notes on his overall general insight to the experience and setting himself a goal list for the upcoming few days before his tired body gave him something he just couldn't ignore and promptly fell asleep.

Ooo ooo ooo

AN: review and let me know what you think.


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